Five Things That Never Happened To Erik Lehnsherr
by Alara Rogers
Summary: Five things that could have changed Magneto's life, if they had happened. Multiple short AU's.
1. Chapter 1

_Author Notes: Although this is posted to the X-Men comics section, so many people misplace their fics that I feel I must point out that this is comic continuity Magneto, not movie or cartoon, and original comic at that, not Ultimate._

_The "Five Things" is a fairly well known format in fandom, describing five different alternate universes for a character. I'd written the first three things in 2003, but didn't get the fourth until last year and was stuck on the fifth until this month. Now it's done, yay!_

_And yes, for those who aren't up on the full history of the Marvel Universe... Charles Xavier had blond hair as a boy._

**Five Things That Never Happened to Erik Lehnsherr**

1.

New York City lay broken below him, with more to follow. His commandant praised him, and there was a celebration with champagne and scantily clad girls. One of them twined herself around him, her body promising far more delightful entertainments tonight. He let her play with his hair while the officers gloated about tomorrow's attack on Washington. It would be as successful as the operation today had been, he knew. He was the Reich's great superweapon, the Ubermensch, and he had defeated every American superhero who had come against him.

After he'd broken England's resistance in a rain of downed planes with destroyed engines, the Americans had come for him. He'd fought Captain America, the Human Torch, the Sub-Mariner, the All-Winners Squad… All had fallen to his power. He was the Master of Magnetism, the Chosen One of the Master Race, and his destiny was assured. None would ever defeat him.

That night he returned to his room, expecting the woman to be there. Instead there was a blond boy, a teen perhaps four or five years younger than he was. Hardly more than fifteen or sixteen. He blinked. He had no interest in young boys, and the thought that anyone might think he might awakened long-buried memories he didn't want stirred. He scowled.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled.

The boy only looked at him. Erik summoned power, making a fist and letting it glow with the fire he commanded. "Talk, dog! What are you doing in my room?"

"I actually came to kill you," the blond boy said in an American accent. "But you're really just as much a victim as any they've killed. You're just too pathetic. I can't do it."

Furious, Erik fired a bolt of pure electricity at the boy. It went straight through. The boy was a ghost.

"What _are_ you?" Erik demanded, too angry to be frightened yet.

"That's a funny question, coming from you," the boy said. "Let's just say I'm the ghost of the family you betrayed, of the people you left behind."

Erik's eyes widened. The first thing he thought was that the boy didn't look like a Jew. The next thing he did was to stomp hard on that thought. He didn't want to think that word, didn't want to remember his family, didn't want to think about anything except what he was now--

--because if he remembered he would have to remember starving, being filthy, exhausted from overwork and beaten frequently and knowing he would die, he'd been condemned to this hellhole to die--

--and then the high-ranking SS officer had had him brought to a room with food, and told him there was a terrible mistake, that the Jews had stolen him as a child and the SS officer was his true father--

--and he'd known it wasn't true because he'd heard all his life about how much like his mother he looked, how his father's fey sister had his coloring, how much his personality was like his father's, and he knew he was his parents' child, but if he challenged the lie he would be back in the asshole of the world, starving and beaten and dying, and all he had to do to live was to accept the lie, believe the lie, live the lie--

--and Erik wanted so very much to live--

He couldn't move. His body was literally frozen. He wanted to summon power, wanted to attack the blond boy, but neither his body nor his power would respond.

And then the visions began.

His father, the father he'd rejected to preserve his own miserable life, stood before him, raging at his son's betrayal. His sister wept, begging to know how he could have done it. His mother froze him with icy silence, rejecting him as he had rejected her, casting him away, as he had thrown away everything he believed in so he could live, and be free.

Those he left behind in the camps screamed at him, chanting. How many more had died, because he'd cooperated with the Nazis? While he was eating fine food and wearing nice clothes and killing anyone who so much as hinted they remembered he used to be a Jew, his friends, his family, his people had been slaughtered and he'd allowed it. Helped it. How many French Jews had died because of the work he'd done for the Reich? How many English Jews had perished in the same flames he'd escaped?

They surrounded him now, demanding to know why, crowding in on him. He remembered digging his way out of a grave full of their bodies, leaving them behind then, and again when the SS officer had come with his lie, and he had done more than leave them behind. He had betrayed them. He had sent many of them to their deaths. How many more lime pits like the one that held his parents and sister were there now, because of him?

Erik screamed, and fell to the floor holding his head. He wanted to beg for them to stop, but he knew he didn't deserve any mercy. All the memories he'd suppressed for six years, everything he had tried so hard not to remember lest he be thrown back into that hellhole, overwhelmed him. He was the worst creature ever to have walked the planet. He had allowed his own to be condemned just so that he could survive, and thrive. He had thought himself superior, but it was not so. He was the lowest thing in creation, and he wanted to die. In desperate self-hatred he tried to summon the power to stop his own heart.

"Oh, no, Erik," the blond boy said softly, and knelt down by him. "No, you don't get to die. That is no atonement. You want to make up for your sins? You want to redeem yourself?"

"Yes," Erik whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming and weeping. "Yes, please... please tell me..."

"Fight them. Turn on them. Break the Reich, free the slaves in the camps. You have the power to do it. None of them can possibly stand against you." The boy shook his head sadly. "It isn't entirely your fault. They brainwashed you, and you let it happen because they'd broken you already, in the camps. I'm so sorry. I wasn't old enough to do anything about it then, but now I have the power to help you. If you fight back, if you destroy the Reich, you can atone for your crimes in fighting for them. If you free the Jews in the camps you can atone for having allowed the Nazis to send so many more to their deaths. It's the only thing you can do."

"Yes. I'll do it. Yes."

The chanting, screaming ghosts faded away. The boy stood up and smiled. "Good. See that you do, Erik. Or I will have to bring them back."

And then he was gone, vanishing, as if he'd never been there.

Numbly Erik staggered to the mirror and stared into it. There was the face of a Jew. It had always been the face of a Jew. And it was more than time that he remembered that, and remembered where his true loyalties should lay.

"My name," he whispered, "is Erik Lehnsherr."

Then he straightened up and strode out into the hallway. He had former comrades to kill.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Every time the Sonderkommando went into the chambers to retrieve the bodies of the dead, they knew it might be the last time. The Sonderkommando was purged every so often, a team locked in while they worked and then the gas turned on to claim them, and the next team of Sonderkommando would have to retrieve _their_ bodies as well.

Today it was Erik Lehnsherr's turn to die.

He gasped for air that wasn't there, his lungs burning, his eyes on fire. Choking. Dying. The men he'd survived hell with for the past few months writhing and screaming and dropping all around him. The death they'd led so many others to, had cooperated with by keeping the furnaces going and leading the doomed to the chambers, had reached out to claim them today, and it didn't matter how much of his soul he had sold to stay alive, it wasn't enough. He was dying.

Even as his vision dimmed, rage filled him. He would _not_ die this way! Not at their hands, not after all he'd suffered-- not when he was the last one left to remember his family, to carry their names and memories in his mind--

Something rose within him, something electric and powerful. Something he'd felt only once before, the last time he had been falling into a man-made death. Erik saw the world as arcs of light, patterns of force, and he _pushed_, shoving against the lines with some force within him.

The doors, metal, blew off the chamber. Then the ceiling and the walls, lined with steel I-beams, exploded outward. The gas dissipated. Choking men staggered to their feet, breathing in fresh air.

Erik could not be in a box. Nothing could enclose him, could imprison him. Not now, never again. More and more force flowed through him, pushing outward, sweeping all metal in its path. SS officers could not hold onto their guns, or were dragged across the mud or pulled screaming into the air if they tried to hold on. Buildings collapsed as I-beams warped away from the center of the force. Barbed wire bent and tore and flew outward, broken into a thousand sharp bits.

None of his former comrades knew what had happened to Erik, why he was glowing or why blue arcs of electricity danced around him or why he was floating half a foot off the ground. None of them cared. The Sonderkommando had already been prepared for rebellion; whatever mysterious force had transformed Erik and was currently ripping all the metal out of the camp, it just sped up the timetable. Those that were strong enough, given their exposure to the gas, raced out of the remains of the chambers.

Hundreds of inmates milled through the camp, wondering what was happening. The weakest of them dropped dead of heart attacks or aneurysms in the magnetic field, but many were left who were strong enough to survive. It took a few minutes to realize that none of the guards had guns any more and there was nothing holding the inmates prisoner. And then the former prisoners became a mob, some making a beeline for the fallen fences and freedom, others turning with a vengeance on their kapos and the SS officers. They were weak from starvation, but when a mob of twenty starving madmen descends on a single well-fed man, it is rare that the single man wins. Most of the SS did not win.

No one tried to touch Erik, to lead him out. No one could; the electricity dancing around his body had already killed all the former comrades around him who'd been made too weak by the gas to flee.

He saw visions, images sparkling in a brain overloading from power. He heard the voice of God, saw choirs of angels. He was the Messiah, he was Moses, destined to lead his people to freedom. All he had to do was keep sending the power out, destroying or flinging everything metal in its path. Train tracks warped and twisted. No longer would trains be able to bring the doomed to Auschwitz. The power hurt now, burning, and his head felt as if it would explode, but he was also riding high on it. No longer human. He was an angel, he was a prophet. His pain, his sacrifice, was saving his people. It coursed through his veins, the perfect drug, pain and ecstasy and power.

And then some bright pain exploded behind his eyes, and he fell.

He was so very cold.

The power was gone. He couldn't call it back. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt wetness trickling down his lip from his nose. His eyes were open but everything was blank, neither black nor white, just nothing. His limbs were so very tired, too tired to move a muscle, and he could feel nothing except a sense of terrible inner cold.

Moses had never been allowed to reach the Promised Land.

Erik understood then that he was dying.

He should have thought it unfair, should have raged against it. He had been trying to save his life, not to end it. If he had known when he flung the power out against the doors that he would still die here, alone and unmourned…

...he still would have done it.

The darkness was slowly devouring him, but Erik smiled, barely able to feel the movement of his muscles against the cold of the ground. By his sacrifice, his people were now free. It was a good reason to die.

He couldn't see, but he closed his eyes anyway.

_Papa, Mama. I'm coming home now._


	3. Chapter 3

3.

The inn was billowing flames.

He raced down the street in a desperate panic. Magda was leaning out the window, holding Anya in her arms. He could see the fire flickering behind her. "ERIK!" she screamed.

"Magda! I'm coming in for you!"

Heedless of personal safety he pushed past the innkeeper, who was standing near the door shouting, "Sir, sir, it's too dangerous! Don't go in there!" but what else could he do? His wife, his daughter, would die. He _had_ to get them out of there.

The heat was blinding, overwhelming. Sweat leapt out of his pores, and his eyes burned with smoke. He had almost reached the stairs when he heard a cracking sound above his head, and looked up.

A support beam, on fire, was falling on him.

There wasn't even time for real fear, nothing more than adrenaline shock before he flung _something_ out to protect himself. Something, like hands, except his hands could not have held off the beam. Something, like hands, except hands could not have picked up a crowbar across the room and flung it at a man standing next to him.

There was something in him. He had power. He _could_ save Magda and Anya. But he couldn't figure out how to get up the stairs. Part of the roof had fallen on top of the whatever it was he had flung up to protect himself, and it had slid off and was now blocking the stairs. There had to be another way. Maybe, if he could throw a crowbar across a room, he could pick up his family from the upper floor and carry them down safely? Or make a whatever this was for them to land on?

As he ran back outside, mind racing, trying to figure out how he could use this strange new power to save his family, he heard a shout. "There he is!" Hands grabbed him, wooden sticks struck him. He tried to fling the power out again, but his head throbbed with pain and it wouldn't respond.

"_Erik!_ For the love of God, let him go, let him help us, _please!_ We'll burn!"

"_Papa!_"

No one except him was paying attention to Magda and Anya's screams. They were too busy beating him, calling him a capitalist dog and an enemy of the state. He saw the man who had tried to cheat him out of his money, grinning, and knew how this had happened, why he was being attacked. "Let me go, _please!_ My wife-- my daughter--"

"Sorry, comrade, but you should have thought of that before you attacked me," the man sneered.

He heard Magda scream again, a shrill, agonized sound. He had heard screams like that. They haunted his dreams. Her entire people had been flung into the flames on the night the gypsy camp had been slaughtered, and he'd been able to do nothing to save them, had only been able to save Magda by bribing a kapo into smuggling her into the Jewish women's camp the night before. And now the death by fire came to claim her, and his daughter, and he still couldn't save them.

"_Magda!_" he screamed.

And saw her jump.

She and Anya tumbled through the air and landed, Anya on top of Magda, in a broken heap in front of the inn, on the cobblestone not five feet away from him, because these men had not let him save them.

"No," he whispered, strangled. "No! _NO!_"

The power built within him, hot and riotous as if he were the one burning. He saw nothing but white in his rage. All around him was the sound of swiftly silenced screams, and the smell of charring flesh, and ozone.

He opened his eyes. All around him were nothing but smoking corpses. His rage had killed them all. And he was glad. They had killed-- they had killed--

Suddenly horribly weak, he staggered over to the bodies of his loved ones. Magda's beautiful face, shattered, blood leaking from her head and trickling down the dry pavement. Anya lying on top of her, held in her arms, so still and unmoving. He collapsed to his knees next to them, lay his head on them, and began to sob.

"Papa?"

The sobs stilled. He lifted his head. Had he heard that? How had he heard that?

Anya's eyes were open. "Papa? Don't cry."

"Anyushka? You're _alive?_ Dear God..." He grabbed his daughter and hugged her. She cried out.

"Owww! It hurts, Papa!"

Of course it hurt. What was he thinking? She might have broken ribs, arms, legs, anything, but she was alive. Magda had cushioned her daughter's fall with her own body so that Anya could survive. More hot tears welled, grief and love for his wife combined with relief and fear for his daughter. She needed a hospital.

He was dizzy when he stood, shockingly weak, his head pounding so badly he thought it would explode, but he did not drop his daughter. _Please, God. I know You and I have not spoken much in the past. I'll believe in You again, I'll raise her to love and worship You, if only You let me save her. Let me get her to a hospital, please God, please. I'll even forgive You for Magda if You only let Anya live and be all right._

Cars were not common in Vinnitsa, but at least one of the dead men in the street had come in one. Erik turned, _feeling_ the car, _seeing_ it in his mind. As he approached, the door opened. He knew now that he was doing that, could _see_ the tendrils of energy he was reaching out as if they were hands to shape and manipulate the metal around him. Electromagnetism. Had to be. What else could form a force field, and fire electricity, and draw metal to it, and yet could not push away human bodies with wooden saps? Magda's body still lay in the street. Desperately he wanted to recover it, to bury her properly, but Anya was alive, Anya was the priority. She was who he needed to concentrate on, and he had only the strength for one. Magda would approve. She had died for her daughter; she would understand Erik leaving her body behind to ensure Anya's life.

* * *

The nature of the emergency was so blindingly obvious that no one even asked for his papers, just took him in and started treating his daughter. He did show papers when they finally asked. That was probably a mistake. 

Anya was in a cast, her leg broken, her ribs taped where the impact had fractured them. The doctors had told him that due to her age Anya had escaped with far fewer injuries than she should have had; her bones were still soft and springy, able to take more force without breaking. She was in reasonably good spirits, considering. She hadn't asked where her mother was. Erik rather thought Anya already knew, and was saying nothing about it either to avoid upsetting her Papa or because if she said anything it would make it real.

Erik's own headache had passed, finally, and after he'd eaten he felt much stronger. He didn't dare practice the power in an open ward, but he could feel it within him. So when the police came to arrest him for the murder of 18 men and women, he had a better idea of his capabilities. He took his daughter, in her cast, and he went out the window. Anya screamed, obviously remembering what had happened the last time she went out a window, but Erik had learned the trick to making these force fields, and was able to bring them both to ground lightly, gently. He grabbed the first car he found, put Anya in the back seat, jumped into the front, and instead of turning the engine on he lifted the car into the air.

He'd heard the news, been told about England ceding Palestine back to the Jews and the new nation of Israel forming. He hadn't thought he needed to go. Now he knew better. A Jewish stranger would not be safe anywhere in the Soviet Union, anywhere in the world except among his own kind. And perhaps he could help to protect the Jewish homeland with these new powers. Certainly it would be safer for Anya to live among her own kind. It didn't occur to him that he had never thought of Anya as a Jew before today; her mother was Romany and he himself had been trying to forget what he was. But God had given him this power, God had let Anya live. His grief for Magda knew no bounds but at least Anya lived. He would keep his promise to God, since God had finally kept a bargain with him.

Below him ordinary people pointed and shouted. He lifted the car up, up into the air, heading east. Anya looked out the window and laughed. "Everybody is so small, Papa!"

He closed his eyes. He didn't need them to "see" where he was going. "They are, Anyushka. Yes."


	4. Chapter 4

4. 

Isabelle's fingers were far stronger than he expected a woman's touch to be, but as soothing as the pressure against his locked muscles felt, he could not relax. He knew Isabelle Ribiero, trusted her completely, and yet the moment she had embraced him in a dim room, the ghost of Magda had risen up screaming at him. The last time a human woman had embraced him with romance on her mind, she had ended up calling him a monster and running from him. He tried to tell himself that Isabelle was different, that she knew of his powers already, that she would not betray him, but as much as he consciously might believe it, his subconscious fear refused to yield the grip it had on him.

Frustrated, he sat up. "This isn't working--"

And saw a shadow behind Isabelle, a bulk moving toward her, and felt the presence of steel.

Action became reaction. Without thought, without hesitation, Erik flung power out at the shadow, throwing it back against the window, while at the same time he grabbed Isabelle with his hand and pulled her close to him.

"Erik, what--"

Guns fired. Bullets made of lead, not steel. He threw up a shield, at the same time yanking the guns away from the hands holding them -- and his power was thrown back at him, backlashing along every nerve, making him double over and scream.

"I tried to warn you," Control's voice said. "But no, you had to be a hot dog, didn't you? Had to go running off your leash. You should have followed orders."

Erik lifted his head, staring. "_Control?_"

It was, in fact, Control, flanked by two goons. One of them was the brutally large man who had been reaching for Isabelle. Both were in the process of picking up their guns from the floor.

Isabelle clung to him. "Erik, who are these people? Why are they trying to kill us?"

"I don't know. I thought this man was on my side. Explain yourself! Why are you here?"

"I told you. You got the wrong Nazi. Heinrich was one of ours. You're a liability, Magneto, a loose cannon, and if you won't stay under our control we can't afford to have you around at all."

"One of _yours?_ He was Nazi scum! My job is to bring people like that to justice!"

"Get your head out of your ass. It's not about justice, it's not about the Nazis. It's about the Russkies, and what they're gonna do to the entire world if we let them. If some Nazi son of a bitch can help us beat the Commies, then we're going to give him protection from people like you." Control shook his head. "You Israelis have no sense of proportion about crap like this. If it wasn't for us and our friendly nuclear umbrella, your Arab neighbors would have made mincemeat out of you by now. But no, you've got to go against your own interests, stop playing ball with us. Tell me, Magneto, did Mossad put you up to double-crossing me, or are you just that stupid?"

Erik disregarded nearly everything in that speech. His vision was going white with fury. The CIA had been sharing intelligence with him, giving him what he needed to track down Nazi war criminals, because he'd thought the Americans were on Israel's side, were on his side. The Americans had stood against the Nazis, they had helped Israel, and Charles was an American. He had thought he could trust the Americans. He couldn't trust any human being at all.

"You _protected NAZIS?_"

He flung power out again, trying to blast Control back against the wall-- but the pain came again, and this time stopped the force from even leaving his immediate magnetic field. Erik curled up in agony, trying to make his body work again, trying to force himself to straighten out despite the pain.

"If they were willing to help us against the Commies, yes. It's a new world order, Magneto. You don't get it." Control shook his head again. "Sad, really. All that power, but you muties are just as stupid as anybody else. Look at you, trying to use your powers over and over. You'd have thought the first time you got hurt you'd have figured it out."

"What... did you do to me?"

"It's these nifty vests, see." Control opened his coat. "The bright boys back at the lab whipped up something to help us deal with you. See, these reflect your own power back at you. Any time you try to do something to us, it backlashes on you. You can keep trying to fight it if you want, but... me personally, I don't like pain."

Erik glanced over at Isabelle, whose face was absolutely white with terror. Strong fingers that had so confidently massaged his back a few minutes ago were now digging into his arm and shoulder as she clung to him desperately. "Let Isabelle go. She has nothing to do with this."

"Sorry, pal. Our sponsors are looking for a little payback here." Control looked at Isabelle. "Too bad, lady, but maybe you shouldn't have been playing footsie with a mutie spy. That kind of thing gets people killed."

"Don't kill me," Isabelle pleaded. "Please. I've done nothing to you."

"You picked the wrong boyfriend." Control nodded, and the two men next to him lifted their guns.

"Erik, _help me!_" she screamed--

--and it was Magda's voice again, "Erik, our child! Save her!" and the burning building, and the petty viciousness of human men and their desire for power dragging him down, dragging them down, and his daughter was screaming for her papa to save her but the pain was so bad and he couldn't concentrate and _never again_--

--The pain was awful for a moment as the power exploded from him, more raw force than he'd ever channeled before. And then he shredded the vests that were turning his own strength against him, because he was master of magnetism and magnetic vests would not master him, he would not die this way, would not see someone he loved die for his failure this day--

The wall exploded outward. The goons fell, screaming, twelve stories to their deaths. Erik strode forward and grasped Control by the neck, effortlessly lifting him. It wasn't his muscles anymore, it wasn't his human body. He was an avatar of magnetic rage, of power. "Little man! You who murder your own kind for power, you who turn a blind eye to the slaughter of women and children, your day on this Earth is _done!_ No more will you be permitted to kill the innocent for the sake of your stupid tribal conflicts; no more will you sleep fat and safe in your homes while the leaders you elect dance with the devil to fatten their wallets. The future belongs to _me!_ I am _Homo superior_, I am power, and I will crush your kind to save the world for my people! I am _Magneto!_"

And with that, he set Control's body ablaze with electrical fire, and flung the dying man out the window.

He collapsed then. His head was pounding, and he was so weak, so tired. And she would run now. He knew how this story went. He had lived it before. He had saved her life, but she was human, and she would fear him as all humans feared him, and she would run. He had saved her, and he had lost her.

A gentle hand touched the back of his neck.

"Erik," he heard her whisper. "Oh, God, Erik, what is this power doing to you?"

Erik lifted his head painfully, looking up at the eyes of his doctor, his friend, the woman who would have been his lover if things had gone as they should have. "Why... are you here?" he whispered.

"Why am _I_ here? You need medical help. You're bleeding, and you've collapsed on the floor, and what I just heard from you sounded downright delusional. Erik, I'm taking you to the hospital. Can you stand?"

"You aren't running away?"

Isabelle sighed. "I am _not_ Magda. I am not your wife, Erik. You saved my life; I would be a poor excuse for a human being, not to mention violating my oath as a doctor, if I ran from you when you needed me. Let me help you."

This wasn't right. This wasn't how the story went. This wasn't his life. She could not still be here -- she could not be staying with him, after he had murdered three men and blown out the side of the building. She had to fear him. How could she not fear him?

"Why don't you fear me?" he asked, as she put her arm around him and pulled him up to his feet, taking most of his weight on herself.

"You're Erik Magnus. You're my patient, and my friend, and a damn fine man. I am not going to run away screaming because you saved my life. Now I realize there is something strange happening in your brain right now, I understand you really don't feel well and you're probably experiencing some disordered thinking right now, but I want you to trust me, all right? I'm going to help you get to a hospital, and we'll bandage you up and see if we can help you with that headache you probably have. Okay? I don't fear you, Erik. Can you trust me?"

He was so weak, so sick. He didn't even believe this was happening. But if she wouldn't run away... then yes, he trusted her.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Good man. Now come on, let's see if we can get down the stairs, because I doubt the elevator's working right now."

He staggered, letting her take most of his weight, until some of the weakness and dizziness and the weird sparkly things happening in his head had passed and the world had started to feel real again. Erik straightened up. "We... can take the elevator. It is working."

"Erik, you are _not_ up to using your powers--"

"I'm not. Just to tell that the elevator isn't broken. You are a very strong woman, Isabelle, but I don't think you can carry me down twelve flights of stairs and I don't feel strong enough to make it on my own."

"All right." She smiled at him. "You seem to be feeling a little bit better now. Are you?"

"I... think I am recovering, but my... something hurts. I can't describe it. It's like a pulled muscle, but it's inside my head. I think I've strained something with my powers."

"I agree. Let's see if we can get to the bottom of this and get you well."

He propped himself against the back wall of the elevator, magnetizing himself to it just so slightly without really willing it, only so he would not fall down, and looked at Isabelle. She was still here. She hadn't run away.

The Americans had betrayed him. For all he knew someone in Mossad might have been in on it. But not all humans were betrayers. Not all humans had declared themselves his enemy.

Once they got to Isabelle's car, he sprawled across the back seat and closed his eyes. He trusted her.

Erik let himself fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

5. 

The village was small, obviously impoverished, but well-kept. Homes were made rudely, of poor materials, but clean and kept in good condition. That, at least, he could be grateful for.

Children played in the middle of the dirt road that seemed to function as a main street. They looked up as he approached, wary-eyed. "I'm looking for Django Maximoff," he said in what was hopefully passable Romany. He had been his Romany grandmother's favorite grandson, and she had spoken to him in her native tongue, though technically with three Jewish grandparents he was _gajo_. Later he and Magda had shared the language in common, using it occasionally as a private tongue when they were surrounded by strangers they distrusted. Undoubtedly his accent was strange, but then, he was from far away -- Magda's accent would probably be strange to them as well.

Hearing their language from him melted their suspicion away -- the Romany were very hospitable to traveling visitors, provided that the visitors were also Romany. One of the boys jumped up. "I'll take you there, mister!"

Erik followed the boy to a house near the edge of the small village, close to the base of the mountain. There was a man outside it, trying to fix a cart. He looked up as Erik approached, and his face went gray. "God above," he said softly. "You must be their real father."

Erik was taken aback. He hadn't expected such an immediate admission. "You expected me?" he asked.

"No, no. But my son. He looks exactly like you."

"I was told there were two children? A girl and a boy?"

"Who told you? Where have you come from?"

Erik gestured at Mt. Wundagore, looming behind them. "The master of Mt. Wundagore gave my children to you. One of his servants, a midwife named Bova, told me. I've come to take them back with me." He didn't feel the need to mention that Bova was a talking cow. If Maximoff didn't already know how odd the inhabitants of the mountain were, Erik was not going to tell him.

Maximoff sighed sadly. "I will call my wife, and the children." He turned toward his home. "Marya! Bring the children!"

A woman came out of the small hut, holding a little girl in her arms. Erik stared. The girl was Anya, except that she had Magda's wild red curls instead of Anya's straight brown hair. Big brown eyes peered out at him from under the pile of ringlets. "Peeto hair!" the child said, pointing at him. "Man got Peeto hair!"

"Marya," Maximoff said. His voice was hoarse, cracked. He swallowed and started again. "Marya, this man is Wanda and Pietro's real father. He's come to take them back."

"He is doing _no_ such thing!" the woman said sharply. She stepped back toward the house. "Wanda, go inside."

"Peeto _hair._"

"Go inside! And find your brother, tell him to stay inside as well!"

As the child toddled back toward the dwelling, Marya Maximoff looked up at Erik, eyes blazing. "We have raised these children since they were in swaddling clothes. _You_ ran away when your wife died birthing them! You wanted nothing to do with them, and now you want them back?"

Rage rose up. Erik forced it down -- he would not terrorize his children by murdering their foster parents, however their ignorance enraged him. "What are you talking about, woman?" he asked. "I never knew my wife was with child. She ran from _me_ because I avenged the murder of our daughter, and she feared me for what I'd done. I have searched for her for almost three years, only to find that she is dead and I have twin children she never allowed me to know. Had I been there when my babies were born, I would _never_ have rejected them, _never_ have run from them. Who told you otherwise?"

The two looked at each other. "The master of Mt. Wundagore," Django said. "He said that the children's parents had special powers, but that their mother died in childbirth and their father ran away, too fast for anyone to catch. That he refused to acknowledge them as his children."

"I do not run away. Fast, or otherwise. And my daughter is the very image of her mother, of her dead older sister -- how could I fail to acknowledge her?" The rest of what they'd said caught up with him. "What special powers were you told we had?"

"Only that their father could run faster than any human could, and their mother had had some powers as well. They were Americans, heroes. They fought the Nazis."

"But you aren't American," Marya said. "And it is true, what Wanda says. You have Pietro's hair."

"Yes, I am not American. And I was too young to fight the Nazis," Erik said. "But had I had the power then I have now, I would have. They destroyed my family, and my wife's. Neither of us could do more than escape. As for special powers, that much is true, for me. Not my wife. But I do not have any unusual gifts of speed. My powers are... otherwise."

"Perhaps another woman died in childbirth at Wundagore as well?" Django said uncertainly.

"I was also told Magda did _not_ die in childbirth. She feared my power so much, she fled into a blizzard days after giving birth, believing I would find her." He shook his head. "I swear to you, she was my wife. I loved her, I never raised a hand to her. But I did kill those who burned our Anya to death, with my powers, and for that apparently she feared me enough to abandon our children, and die. They never found her body. But they said that in her weakened condition, so soon after giving birth, she could not have survived."

The girl came out of the house again, running to Marya Maximoff's leg and hanging on it. "Peeto pay owside," she said.

"Where is he, Wanda? In the chicken yard again?"

"Peeto like tickens," the girl agreed. "I no like tickens."

"I'll go get him," Django said, and headed around the side of the dwelling. "Pietro! Get out of the chicken yard and come here right now! And don't let the chickens out!"

Erik knelt down on the ground and extended a hand to Wanda. "Hello, Wanda," he said.

"You got Peeto hair," the child said.

"Perhaps I do. Would you like to see my hair? You seem to think it's very interesting."

"She's saying you have the same hair as her brother Pietro," Marya said nervously.

"Yes, I'd gathered that. I'd like to hold her."

"Wanda, go over and give this man a hug. He's your new daddy."

From the stricken note in Marya's voice as she said it, Erik wondered if perhaps she'd deliberately planned such a misstep. Of course Wanda didn't react well to that. She shrank back behind Marya. "No! No new daddy! Want daddy!"

Django arrived, carrying Pietro. And Erik could see why even a two-year-old was taken with the resemblance -- Pietro did have the same hair he did. Not just the same unusual color, but even the odd forelocks that wouldn't behave themselves and lay alongside the rest of the hair properly. "Stop it, Wanda," Django said sternly. "This man _is_ your true father. He's come to take you home."

At that Erik felt a brief spasm of guilt, because he _had_ no home. The moment his wanderings had brought him to Wundagore and he'd learned of his wife's fate, and his children, he had headed directly here to collect them. He had no safe or comfortable place to put two-year-olds; he had been sleeping in caves, in quickly assembled metal huts, in cheap hostels and in barns. While he could build a new home for himself and his children quickly enough, it would lack soft things and colorful things. He'd need mattresses, blankets, toys. It had been so long, he'd almost forgotten how to be a father instead of a lone wolf.

The boy didn't react any better to the idea of a new father than his sister had. He kicked free of Django, darted forward, and punched Erik in the leg, hard, then ran back. From his thundercloud expression, it was obvious that this wasn't just childish rambunctiousness; he'd been trying to hurt Erik.

For a moment, Erik felt rage. How _dare_ this boy reject his true father this way! How could his children turn to _humans_ for their parents and deny their blood?

"Pietro!" Django shouted, grabbing the boy. "No! Apologize to your father!"

"Not daddy!" Wanda wailed. "Not daddy not daddy not daddy! Want _my_ daddy!" Meanwhile, Pietro was twisting and thrashing in Django's grasp, yelling without words.

And suddenly Erik saw the children on the train platform at Auschwitz being separated from their fathers, torn from their mothers, crying and screaming and destined to die in the gas chambers. His heart twisted. These children didn't know him. He was their true father, they should never have been taken from him, they might _need_ him someday if they proved to have strange powers like his... but right now Django and Marya Maximoff were the only family they knew. And if he took them away from the only family they knew, he would barely be better than the Nazis. He saw the naked grief on Marya's face, Django's grim expression as he tried to force his son into something he himself did not want.

He took a step backward. "No," he said softly.

And then more loudly. "No. I won't take them right now. They know you as their parents; they're too young to understand."

"But... you're their father," Django said hesitantly.

"I am. But they don't know that." Erik took a breath. "I will make a home for them, near here, and I will come back as often as I can, until they know me. I will give you money to help with their care, and I expect to be included in any major decisions you make regarding them. But I will allow you to keep them, at least until they know me well." He looked down at the crying children, and swallowed. "They love you. They don't know me. I will not make my children suffer this way, being torn from the parents they know to live with one who is a stranger to them."

He knelt down again. "Wanda, Pietro, I am not going to take you away from your daddy. Now you have two daddies. You'll still live here, and I'll come visit you and bring you presents. But your mother and father will still take care of you."

Pietro stopped squirming. "Pesent?"

"Yes." He had a sudden idea. Django and Marya had claimed they'd been told of his powers already -- or at least of someone's powers; the story they told of the children's origin was so detailed, he felt sure a case of mistaken identity was involved -- and he needed to know if the people raising his children would fear his power as Magda had. He concentrated, pulling iron out of rocks and dirt lying all about, and fashioned it into a toy car -- red, because he didn't know how to make any color in metal except for red, silver and black. Pietro and Wanda watched the process wide-eyed. Marya held a hand to her mouth, but did not scream or try to flee, and Django seemed as fascinated as his children. When he was done, Erik handed the car to Pietro, who grabbed it eagerly. "What zis?"

"It's a car, Pietro," Erik said, wondering if the boy had ever seen one. In an impoverished Romany encampment, perhaps not.

"Car!"

Erik smiled. All little boys loved red toy cars. His son was apparently no exception.

"I want car!" Wanda shouted. "Peeto car, me car!"

"Wanda, you're a little girl. You should have a doll," Marya advised her.

"I don't know how to make a doll," Erik admitted. "If she wants a car, she shall have a car." He pulled more iron up from the ground and made Wanda a car, lodestone black with a red stripe. "Here is your car."

"My car!" Wanda caroled happily, and swung it around as if it were an airplane. "I got car!"

"How... how did you do that?" Django asked, with more wonder and amazement in his voice than fear or trepidation.

"I control the force of magnetism," Erik said. The man's face was still blank. "Metals. I can control metals, such as iron and steel."

"The axle of my cart is iron!" Django said. "It's rusted through and broken. I was trying to replace it with wood, but perhaps you could fix it?"

Erik almost laughed aloud. They'd be far more afraid of him if they knew he wasn't actually Romany, he knew, but apparently since he was the father of their children, he was family and his power was simply a useful skill to be called on, much like a village midwife or a man who could track down missing pigs. "I would be happy to," he said, and gestured. Most of the cart was wood, but it was resting on the rusted axle in such a way that the moment he solidified the rusted rod back into pure iron, the cart righted itself.

"Beautiful! Thank you greatly, I should be able to get to the market with no trouble now!"

"My pleasure," Erik said. "I'll take my leave of you now. When I return I'll have some more presents for the children -- such as a doll for Wanda --" he nodded at Marya as he said this -- "and some money for you. My powers have helped me earn a great deal as a blacksmith and tinker, and I'd be pleased to share it with you for my children's sake." This was true as far as it went, although he'd also stolen more than a bit of gold and currency in the course of his search for Magda.

"I make dolls," Django said. "I give too many of them to Wanda. Give her a stove that a doll can cook at, or bring her something pretty to wear."

His children were playing with their cars together, cooperating far better than he ever remembered cooperating with his own older sister. In fact his older sister would never have deigned to play cars with him. Wanda had stuck her arm out and Pietro was driving his car up it and onto her shoulder, which made her giggle and drop her arm.

"When will you come back?" Marya asked.

"Soon. I need to find a place to establish my trade near here."

"The _gajo_ near here won't trust a Romany blacksmith," Django said. "But you look like you could pass."

"Yes, I do it all the time," Erik said.

"You never said your name," Marya pointed out.

He considered whether to use a false name or not, and decided against it. "My name is Erik Lehnsherr."


End file.
